


Benevolence and Indulgence

by LeotheLionathefootofOrion



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author has CFS and chronic pain, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Apocalypse, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 10:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeotheLionathefootofOrion/pseuds/LeotheLionathefootofOrion
Summary: Crowley is bad at a lot of things. Some more crucial than others.





	Benevolence and Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr (@gabessquishytum). Crowley with chronic pain means a lot to me as do all the wonderful fics created so far - this is inspired by all the awesome chronic pain Crowley authors.

The trouble is, Crowley is bad at doing the things that Aziraphale likes best. And it’s oh so very hard. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to, because there’s nothing he wants more. It’s that he genuinely, physically can’t.

Take reading. Crowley can read, obviously, but he isn’t good at it. His eyes aren’t suited to the task. If he wants to read a book he has to sit there, hunched over, tracing each word with a fingertip and murmuring aloud. He finds it shameful even when he’s alone in his own flat, and the one time Aziraphale suggested that they read quietly in each other’s company he gave up after a page or two. He could feel Aziraphale watching him and he was sure the angel was annoyed by his mumbling. So he put his book down and settled for watching. He could do that successfully at least.

Food, another of Aziraphale’s passions, presented a similar issue. Crowley just… Wasn’t interested. His body didn’t particularly enjoy it, he felt strange as soon as he ate. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried. He’d take the little mouthfuls that Aziraphale persuaded him to try, and he tried oh so hard to enjoy them. But no, somehow food just wasn’t for him. He just preferred to watch, somehow. Aziraphale seemed to be used to it. At least, he never mentioned it.

The thing was, there were a lot of things that Crowley wasn’t good at. And perhaps the most crucial, the most obvious, was walking. At the root of it, Crowley was a snake. He was never meant to walk. It went against the punishment that She had laid out after the Fall - the crawling and eating dust thing. And he paid the price.

His legs were more than just uncoordinated. They ached fiercely with every step, they twisted themselves into uncomfortable knots and generally made themselves as disagreeable as possible. For every inch of surface area there was a pain and a torment. Wet days, dry days, there was little discrepancy. Fundamentally, the legs weren’t meant to be there and they knew it.

Living in London was fine. He had the Bentley. He could cope with the odd stroll through the park with Aziraphale. He hardly noticed the pain (not true, but he told himself that he didn’t). He could watch Aziraphale pottering around the bookshop as he sprawled artfully and purposefully on the couch. It was fine.

And then the apocalypse didn’t happen and they switched bodies and oh, he still hurt, of course he did. Back in his own broken form he ached so hard he almost sobbed out loud, and he slept for three days in Aziraphale’s bookshop afterwards, and between them they decided that it was time for a holiday.

So they have a new place to stay and Crowley has a new couch to lounge on, to watch Aziraphale from. It’s rather lovely, rather soothing. Until it isn’t.

Aziraphale ruffles Crowley’s hair as he walks past the couch. Crowley is so fond and overtaken by the small gesture that he doesn’t complain. He tries to memorise instead, the soft brush of the angel’s hand.

By the time he’s paying attention again, Aziraphale is talking about a coastal path, and sand dunes, and to Crowley’s dawning horror - walking. He’s got that look of pure pleasure on his face, babbling about sea air. Crowley’s legs protest at the mere thought and he curls up instinctively. The thought of saying no, however, doesn’t even enter his mind. He can’t very well watch Aziraphale walk a coastal path from the safety of the cottage. This is an activity in which he must partake.

Aziraphale leads him down the path outside their cottage, down the little road that slopes onto the edge of the beach. Crowley’s legs protest loudly in anticipation, although Aziraphale is walking at a relaxed pace like he’s in no hurry to be anywhere. Crowley thanks Somebody for small mercies. There’s a ringing in his ears that warns of further pain and sensory overload, but Crowley can ignore that. He can.

They reach the sea wall soon enough and walk a few metres. Aziraphale chatters animatedly about how humans used to think the seaside could cure pretty much anything. Crowley wants to laugh. He doesn’t.

And then Aziraphale shifts the path of his steps and sits delicately down on a wooden bench, facing the sea. Crowley falters, still on his tingling feet while the angel looks at him expectantly.

“I thought,” He begins falteringly. “I thought we were walking? You know. Coastal path and all that. Sightseeing. Getting some exercise.”

Aziraphale’s expression shifts into incredulity. “Exercise? We’re an angel and a demon. We don’t need exercise,” He frowns. “You thought I was suggesting that we walk the whole thing when it’s miles? With your legs?”

Crowley gapes and sits down heavily on the other end of the bench. “You know?”

Aziraphale looks patient. “Of course I do. I’ve always known. I thought you knew that I knew.”

Crowley buries his head in his hands. Aziraphale knows his awful little secret. It’s more than he feels qualified to deal with. “But I- I thought you wanted to- I don’t want to stop you from-” He rattles on until he feels gentle fingers in his hair, carding through the soft locks.

“Darling, you have spent 6000 years indulging my whims as far as you can. I think it’s time that changed.”

Crowley shudders, because the word ‘darling’ sounds like the most blissful music to his ears and he doesn’t feel quite able to cope. Aziraphale’s arm curls around his waist and he lifts his head out of his hands. Aziraphale smiles at him. The air smells like sea salt.

There are many things that Crowley is bad at. But loving Aziraphale with every fibre of his being is, apparently, not one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment.


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